


Into The Woods

by heelipabo



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Violence, M/M, References to Lord of the Rings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:10:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3467198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heelipabo/pseuds/heelipabo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Please, drink.”</p><p>Laurent didn't move a muscle and glared at him. The man held his gaze for a moment and then scoffed at his daring.</p><p>“Are all the White Elves so passionate in their rage?”</p><p>“Only when we’re being imprisoned by half-naked savages resembling a dead mongrel in smell.” </p><p>This time the man laughed, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of a hand. “So polite for you to notice. Now drink.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into The Woods

**Author's Note:**

> as always hugs and kisses to my amazing beta MizEmily <3
> 
> hit me up on twitter @heelipabo

The sun that day was travelling high up in the blue sky, illuminating the trees and hills, casting blessing rays onto the ever-living grass, accompanied by the melodic tweet of sparrows. Up and up the sun went, and it felt like nothing could be wrong as it brightened up everyone's path.

With one lone exception.

His cautious steps were weakening the further he moved toward the unknown; his mind clouded with doubt and fear for what awaited him. The grimness he was spreading caused the flowers and forest creatures to take refuge in the shadows.

There was a reason why Laurent, the Elf of the White Kingdom of Thranduil had found himself in this state, in the presence of himself and his thoughts alone. Banished from the city for a deed he believed he had committed with rightful cause, he had been forced to wander the woods of Ruian for the rest of his immortal days. What else could he have done than obeyed his lord's merciless order and leave the only place he'd grown to call his home? Rebellious he was not, and with a great weight on his heart he moved forward, not looking over his shoulder as the White Kingdom disappeared quickly behind him.

He ought to call himself a Strider, but the mischievous reputation that would follow wouldn't do him any good in those lands. He had heard bone-chilling stories and hush-toned whispers and he feared them just as much. Murderers. Wild people from the East. Traitors of their kind. Laurent believed he was none of those.

Yet a banished White Elf, chased away from his homeland, would have to go to great lengths to keep himself alive in these unfortunate conditions. His fate would have been quite different if he were a descendant of warriors or trained as one, but he was not. His kind was calculated and as far away from wars as one could be, thus expressing no real need for the combat craft. Focused merely on harmless politics with inhabitants of siding lands, they'd never have to get in between a messy sphere. White Elves were gentle by nature, yet charismatic. These traits would often be used to triumph in quarrels without unnecessary bloodshed. As swift and sharp-sensed as White Elves could be, they didn't display any other physical advantage against potential enemies. Laurent would have to rely on his wits and the elementary longing for survival. More than that, a loose white cloak on his shoulder and almost snow-white long hair weren’t making it easier to hide from potential danger.

Maybe that was what had soon lead Laurent to his loss.

A half dozen sturdy men wearing wolf skin and leather belts tight around their chests came out of hiding from behind grand tree trunks, surrounding the young elf. Their smiles were wicked, hair bushy and coal-dark, the eyes of restless hunters. Their skin was dusky itself, dirty almost. Three of them were closing in on him rapidly, all bearing sharp, spiked knives. Laurent stood tall and resolute, resembling a motionless marble statue in the gardens of the White Kingdom. He stared them down with disdain and dominance, but inside he was growing faint-hearted and uneasy.

“Look who’s crossed our path,” said one of them, an awful slurring deforming his speech.  
Laurent stayed quiet, for he knew not to provoke them more than he’d already done with his presence alone. They didn’t appreciate his indifference. One snorted and spit at Laurent’s feet, barely missing his boot.

“What should we do about our mute friend?” he asked his companions, and they looked at each other lewdly, smirking. Intelligence wasn’t their strong suit, as they all appeared to be only half-witted with their coarse and vulgar manners. Yet they posed an evident threat to the elf, with their imposing postures and very real weapons, which couldn’t go underestimated.

“Many would pay a great price for his raiment. And his hair,” said another, and a murmur of agreement passed by the group and echoed among the trees. Laurent’s blood turned cold, freezing in the tips of his pale fingers.

Two of the men standing nearest to the elf briefly spoke to one another in hushed tones, glancing back at him. He wasn’t fond of the thirst in their eyes.

“Where are you headed, stranger? Perhaps we can be of assistance,” the tallest, most bulky of them suggested, but there was nothing sincere about his proposal and they both knew it. It was a battle of minds, and Laurent was already heavily outnumbered, despite dealing with the wild foolish folk. 

“I mean no harm to you. I say we part in peace and continue our journeys.”

The presumed leader shook his head, faking grief.

“I am afraid I cannot allow it.” Just as he’d finished the sentence, there was a revolting hood placed over Laurent’s head, and he was pushed to his knees while someone worked swiftly in binding his hands in front of him. He whirled and kicked to no avail. His one small victory came in biting someone’s finger when a palm pressed the material to his face to muffle his cries. It was not enough to grant his freedom.

Soon he was up on his legs again, this time shaking and unsteady, as he was nudged forward, blindfolded and senseless.

 

***

 

He’d lost track of time far too early in the walk, pushes and hisses making his head spin and knees weak. His capture was so sudden and out of place that only later did he realize he’d become, in fact, a prisoner. A slave pulled toward his confinement and isolation. Although he was not weak-minded or compliant, his non-combatant nature didn’t present him with many opportunities to protect and fight for his life. He’d heard how they handled enslavement in the East, and if the stories were at all truthful, he would be facing a much more hostile approach from the rest of the lands. Biting and kicking wouldn’t be enough to challenge any residents of that region.

Roaming in his thoughts, he had not realized they were making their way down the hill now. The route ended as quickly as it had started, with a few small rocks rolling down after them and hitting the back of their shoes at the base of the raised ground. Laurent almost tripped over one of those, painfully bruising his big toe, but didn’t have time to agonize over it as he was brutally pushed and pulled, the ropes on his delicate wrists burying in his skin more with every twist and yank.

Laurent had stopped thinking altogether when he heard distant noise that then grew into more coherent sounds of loud conversations and cheering and more vulgar speech from the nearest men as he involuntarily approached them. Comments surely addressed at the elf, as the white cloak was so uncommon and too pure in this part of the woods. Insulting almost. 

The clack of metal against metal was barely making through the commotion, and soon he heard none of it; in fact, everyone and everything around him had gone quiet as if on command. He could sense a dozen pairs of hungry, barbaric eyes on him.

The hood was pulled off his head and it took him a good moment to get accustomed to the light. He blinked twice as his vision got better, and looked around to see at least three times as many men as before, looking at him like at the first-rate prey they had captured that season. Some of them were taken aback, some were curious, but all of them seemed to want to strip Laurent of his clothes right there and then. Laurent had always been considered one of the most fairy-faced, charismatic and alluringly-sculptured elves in the White Kingdom, as well as acknowledged by the many noble visitors gracing his homeland with their presence, but he had never felt so immensely intimidated by the immoral attention he was receiving from these men. His charm was most of the time his one true weapon and now it was plotting against him.

He looked around and realized they were in some sort of temporary camp, with no more than thirty men; no kids, no women, just male warriors. They all looked the same, dressed in the skin of animals, mostly wolves or foxes. Some were sitting on wine barrels, others standing about or leaning against a tree.

“Look as much as you like, lads,” said the man who earlier forbade against a peaceful farewell. He pulled by the rope attached to the shackle around Laurent’s wrists for good measure; an action that would make anyone else trip over their feet, but he kept his solid stance. A few of the spectators came closer and laughed when the elf looked them coldly and unwaveringly in the eyes.

“Look at that, we’ve got a feisty one among us.”

A choir of distasteful, throaty laughs and cheers erupted and Laurent found nothing civil about this flock of wild animals. He wasn’t fast enough to hide his disgust though - not that he really tried - and one of the men came up right into his face, enraged but at the same time amused.

“Are we not fit for your liking?” He looked him up and down and grimaced at his superior posture. His breath smelled of old fish and a hearty amount of bad wine and Laurent felt his stomach crumble.

“I do not intend to fall down to your primitive level, sir.”

Everyone had gone quiet again before they burst out laughing even louder.

“The chief will gladly tame such a creature as yourself,” the man from before said and grabbed a handful of Laurent's blond hair. “I do like some elvish warm flesh for myself. We could share for sure.” He leaned closer, but before he did anything more, an alarming growl came from behind the trooper and he jerked away, suddenly looking half of the man he was a moment ago. In that very moment Laurent realized he was wrong with his previous assumption of leadership.

“What is this commotion?” A voice of undoubtedly higher rank spoke up, stepping in between the group and making everyone to back down and make way like royal dogs.

“My lord,” the man started, but was hushed by the beast dressed in nothing but dark linen around his waist and solid sandals. He was coming toward Laurent. He towered over the elf despite his own impressive height and he seemed like he could lift him up with only the slightest effort of his one hand and toss him across the camp. He looked nothing but intimidating, and it was only then Laurent felt the real chill of danger. The barbarian’s eyes reminded him of the ones of a winter tiger’s, gazing upon his soon-to-be relished meal.

He was walking until he stopped within two paces from the elf, tilting his head to the side and observing him with high interest. The men around were getting anxious, but no one dared to breach their leader’s contemplation.

Then he addressed one of his men.

“Bring him to my tent.” He simply turned around after that, waiting neither for a reply nor to witness Laurent’s outburst of yanks and jerks and clever insults in the elvish language. Two men grabbed him by each of his arms and trailed off with him behind the leader. They smelled only slightly better than the man with the fish breath, but nonetheless he was glad when they finally took their filthy hands off him and left the tent at the soundless command from the beast. They were alone now.

He could feel the tension rising and his breath quickening despite his best effort against it. He had never had the displeasure of dealing with people of this nature, and he did not know what to expect or how to proceed. The initial assumption of the group about him becoming a prisoner seemed to still be adequate as he was left alone with their leader, yet somehow he trusted the man to be honorable. Men were nothing in the face of the greater race that were Elves, so was it foolish for him to expect an act of decent parlay with the man?

The man stood with his back facing Laurent, and he had spared him only a short glance before he came to his task at hand, which the elf failed to see. Using the moment of neglect, he looked around the tent and his mood only grew darker as he realized the only way out was behind him with two armed guards at each side. Out of all the previous encounters with the troops, this particular position was by far the most apt to be used as his means of escaping, although he wasn’t putting too much hope into believing he’d break from the chains of captivity and get very far running away. The image of the men catching up to him or throwing knives at his back was too vivid in his mind. 

To say he felt like a sheep among wolves was the most accurate comparison he could muster under the pressure of the moment. 

Just then the man turned around and walked up to him again, this time displaying a surprising lightness and boldness in his steps, stopping too close to Laurent for his liking. He pushed a golden goblet filled with wine into Laurent’s hand, clearly suggesting he wasn’t in for subtle conversation. 

It was only then Laurent really had the opportunity to take in the details of the appearance of the stranger, noticing the faded markings running across his tanned, muscular chest. Battle scars, thought Laurent, and he had to look away. Elves cherished beauty too much to tolerate seeing or experiencing any harm upon a body. 

The dim light was casting shadows on the man’s face and his thick black hair, which now Laurent realized was arranged in a bun, hanging loosely over his shoulder. It was the longest from all the people he had seen in the camp.

His face bore battle scars as well. Thin, faded white lines that contrasted starkly with his skin, so much darker than Laurent's own. One line painfully stood out, running down from the middle of his left brow, cutting the eyelid and stopping at the high bone of his cheek. It was unimaginable how he didn’t lose the eye. The wound looked older and more fatal than the rest, and it was enough of an answer as to how long this man had possibly been a warrior and the chief of the clan. 

The barbarian didn’t budge at his intense inspection, and simply nodded at the goblet with wine still untouched.

“Please, drink.”

Laurent didn’t move a muscle and glared at him. The man held his gaze for a moment and then scoffed at his daring.

“Are all the White Elves so passionate in their rage?”

“Only when we’re being imprisoned by half-naked savages resembling a dead mongrel in smell.” 

This time the man laughed, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of a hand. “So polite for you to notice. Now drink.”

Laurent knew better than that. Tempting him and then to take advantage of his potential unconsciousness was the frequent method of seducing women and men in these lands. He wasn’t a fool. 

He put away the goblet on the nearest table and waited. He was done playing games.

“You have no reason to keep me here, and I have no reason to stay. I shall bid my farewell.”

The man raised an eyebrow at that, visibly amused.

“Naturally blunt for an elf, I have expected nothing less. Yet I must deny you your will to leave. You belong to us now.”

 

***

 

Evening had rolled around and Laurent still remained under the watchful eyes of the humans. He’d only wished for someone, anyone, to clarify to him why was he even a captive in the first place. It wasn’t for his cheerful companionship, for he refused to share even a mere sympathetic smile with those people.

Someone had brought him some food and he ate none of it, the full plate still in place on the edge a bedside table, with the same goblet of wine from earlier. He had been vaguely reminded of the guards standing outside his lodging before he was left alone for the night. The quarters he had been put in weren’t in any way nice or spacious, but on the other hand he had expected something far more demeaning. Apart from the bed and the bedside table there was nothing much else in the tent, beside the old wooden trunk in the far corner. He had been told he would find there some ‘more suitable’ clothes to wear, but he had no desire to dress like anything other than a White Elf, especially not drenched in the stink of unwashed Striders.

Just as before, now the sounds of chatter reached his ears, and more that once he caught “elf”, followed by obscene remarks. He wouldn’t have been so moved by it if he wasn’t trapped by them with close to no possible ways of escaping.

Sleep eluded him that night, and he spent long hours staring at the ceiling, wanting for it to swallow him whole.

 

***

 

Waking up to the unfamiliar ground and smell had never felt so wrong for Laurent. His first survival instinct was to sneak out under the early rise of the sun, leaving no trail behind. Naturally, that was what he would do if the conditions were any better. A life-saving dagger hidden in his boot would have made a tremendous difference. But there was none, and the chances of getting away with his flight unnoticed was becoming less probable with each passing moment, each infuriating pretentious laugh in the close vicinity of his tent. Blocking out the voices was at this point a rather pointless effort.

He was offered food and wine more times that he could count, each one of them meeting his blatant refusal. Although he was still a young elf and didn’t possess as much self-preservation abilities as some older immortal elves, he could still go for days without consumption. A proficiency truly vital in moments like this.

At one point during the day - Laurent was unable to determine the exact time; it might as well be closer to evening than morning - the leader came to his quarters with a bowl of water and a cloth. He approached the elf cautiously, as if not wanting to make him skittish, and sat at the edge of the bed, placing the items in his lap. Laurent had been curled up in the corner for a significant amount of time at that point, his muscles all sore and unused, but he refrained from moving even remotely closer to the man. 

“I apologize for not acquiring this for you before.” The barbarian rinsed the cloth in the water and squeezed it, and then looked at Laurent. “Please, let me.” The elf reluctantly noted that the man had more clothes on this time: his lower body was covered in long washed-out brown slacks, his scarred chest clothed in a white tunic, its sleeves loosely tied around his wrists, and the same old sandals Laurent had already spotted on him the day before. His hair seemed somewhat more elegantly formed, and his generally clean and fresh appearance was leaps and bounds ahead of his companions’. 

Laurent glanced down at the hand reaching out to his face, but instead of allowing the man to do the cleaning, he snatched away the cloth and with a grimace started wiping away the remnants of dirt from his face, neck and fingers. He wished the man wasn’t ogling him so intensely as he did so.

He handed him back the cloth with a slight gratefulness, yet he didn’t allow himself to let his guard down. He sighed almost inaudibly and looked firmly at the man.

“Who are you? What do you intend to do with me?”

The man looked content with the sudden talkativity and arched a brow at him.

“I am Damen, the chief of this tribe of ‘savages’, as you so finely put it last night. As to why you are here… My men simply want to enjoy the company of an elf.” His smile was only partially gruesome.

“And I suppose a way to win over an elf’s approval is to bind one and throw him into a dark hole in the ground such as this.” He motioned around the room, finding the back-and-forth conversation satisfying. He still despised the man - Damen, if that was indeed his real name - but at least he acted more civil than the rest. And he smelled better, Laurent noticed.

“You must excuse them, they have forgotten what good manners are for.”

“And you haven’t?” he asked bitterly.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment until Damen sighed and looked almost defeated. There was a certain lightless in which he expressed himself now. It had thrown Laurent off guard more than once already.

“Perhaps you are right… Would you then entertain the idea of moving into my peaceful quarters?”

 

***

 

The question turned out not to be one after all. Shortly after their conversation, even though it had ended with Laurent’s strong objection as to sharing quarters with the barbaric leader, the elf was transported to the spacious tent at the top of the row of the significantly smaller ones. His worst nightmare didn’t come true though, and he was offered a bed at the side of the room instead of having to share one with Damen. Looking around, he didn’t see much difference in the interior design from his previous location other than this one was wider.

Just as before, he spent a few good hours merely sitting in the furthest corner of the bed. He wasn't frightened or threatened, just annoyed. Escaping now meant getting caught by the most barbaric man of them all. Slaughtered.

The barbarian didn't reappear until very late in the night though. Without sparing Laurent any pleasantries, he stripped to his undergarments and as he sat on his bed on the other side of the tent, he proceeded to wash his body with water and a cloth he had brought with him. He was running his wet fingers through his untied shoulder-length hair when he spoke up at last, casting troubled looks at the still untouched food on the low table in the middle of the tent.

"You should really fill your stomach with something." He was using the wet cloth to clean his face and neck as he said it. "Our food is not of great quality, but it will keep you from starving to death." Damen moved to his arms and chest. The dim light from a few candles scattered around the room heightened his strong features and the impressive muscular curves of his body. Even while despising the man, Laurent couldn't help but acknowledge the beauty of his raw, toned form.

Damen caught him red-handed and smirked. 

"I wouldn't mind if you touched. Felt me under your fingertips." There was humor evident in his voice, taking great pleasure in making the elf uncomfortable. When he finally finished cleaning up, he moved to the candles and put out all except for one.

"Your kind relishes in such primitive mockery, doesn't it?" Laurent asked coolly. 

Damen shrugged. "That depends," he replied, retaking the spot on his bed yet still not lying down. Now he was facing Laurent, with elbows propped against his thighs.

"On what?" Laurent asked, falling into the trap like like a clueless rabbit.

"On whether it is influencing you," he threw him a last long look before he said, "And from your rosy cheeks and flushed ears, I'm guessing it is."

 

***

 

The third day of captivity brought a peculiar revelation to everyone around. It was not only so much as finally seeing the elf outside the tent and among the humans, but also how his presence was received by them. The surprise was naturally more on Laurent's side. 

He wasn't met with the expected heated negative discussion, but rather with cautious smiles of everyone gathered. No one said a word to him as he sat down on a chair just outside the circle of Striders, yet they didn't omit the duty to watch carefully his every move. Laurent wasn't much alarmed by it, the silence working in their favor for a change. Somewhere along the way he had reluctantly admitted to his name of Laurent and although he wouldn’t go as far as to say the Striders now thought of him as their friend, there was still a distinct shift in how they perceived him.

He still firmly refused to wear clothes provided, a fact which didn't go unnoticed, and he could spot some of the men exchanging looks after Laurent sat down. His white elvish gown bore signs of dry mud on its edges and some ripped out white threads and tiny holes, but he believed it was no use to ask someone there for something to patch it with. Not that they wouldn’t have it, for they all wore handmade clothing and had piles of still unused animal skin and bone-carved needles laying around; it was the surely costly bargaining that would accompany it that was the problem.

The night wasn't one of the nippy ones, thus Laurent had earlier made up his mind not to bring the hood with him, especially when accompanied by the reassuring warmth of the bonfire set right in the middle of the circle of men. Some of them were preparing food on it, others just enjoyed it in their own way. It was something unexpected to see them peaceful like that.

There was still one man missing, and his absence weighed heavily on the company. Whereas most of them exhibited much required strength and resistance against the rough conditions of living in the woods, their leader presented the charisma and power they needed to remain as one. It could almost be felt in the air how the group's morale had drastically dropped without him around.

Given a few more beats of a heart, Damen finally emerged from the far end of the camp with a defeated deer over his shoulder and and few men trailing behind him. His other comrades straightened up in their seats at the first glimpse of their leader, as if white-hot iron blades were buried deep in their lower backs. Motivated by the fear, but respectful nonetheless.

The man looked over everyone, and as his gaze landed on Laurent sitting in a corner, his face broke into a fairly condescending smile, and the elf could see him chuckle under his nose. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at that audacity. 

Damen motioned to one of his companions, and soon enough the other men sat near the fire and started gutting out other small animals they had hunted down. Laurent had to look away instantly, for as an elf, he despised the cruelty toward the innocent living things. If he was in possession of a dagger, he'd gladly gut out the men instead.

When Damen came closer into the light of the fire, Laurent noticed a dark sack hanging from his other shoulder and slightly bouncing against his back. Vague interest sparked within the elf, for the bag seemed heavily packed and guarded by its owner. Damen did not command any one of his men to relieve him of it, and neither did they offer their assistance to do so. It was Damen’s possession and his alone.

Just then, the man circled the fire and approached the elf with a half-smile and light steps.

“I have brought you something to ease your capture.”

“My capture,” Laurent repeated, barely paying the man any interest. His focus remained on the flames, persistent and dismissive. “So you do admit I am your slave.”

Damen didn’t reply instantly, his eyes roaming over the elf’s face. Laurent could feel it as well as the cold chill that came with it. The man then answered, “I do not wish for you to be one.”

“Then free me.”

The sizzling of the fire filled the silence that came upon them. Only when it became unbearable did Laurent look up to meet Damen’s strong gaze. His own lips parted as he found himself to be involuntarily drawn to that raw, natural charisma the barbarian possessed. He was repulsed by this disgusting elvish weakness.

The request remained unanswered and, while still not uttering a word, Damen moved to stand almost behind him and from within his sack he pulled out an item, gleaming in the warm light of the fire as he showed it to the elf.

“We scouted back to the place we had taken you from. We found this, in the grass,” he said as he gently placed it in Laurent’s lap. It seemed to be weightless for it didn’t even make a hollow shape in the elf’s white tunic. A soft smile appeared on his face at his long-lost possession. He had realized he had been parted from it in the first hour of his capture, but ought not to worry for it was meant to always find its way back to the owner. And find it did, through the hands of a barbarian and Laurent’s capturer. 

He brushed the necklace’s delicate edges before taking it in his hand, carefully. Its silver structure might not have been fragile and prone to damage, but the centuries-worth sentimental history it carried deserved the highest honor and affection. Laurent caressed the bottom of it where the silver leaves would become one with the tendrils, tangled as they went up to lay at the feet of a majestic star-shaped lily. The subtle yet mesmerizing white crystal in the middle of it could capture the eyes of even the most treasure-resistant onlookers. It tempted with its delicacy of a morning breeze and the glow of the most prized gem. 

The Evenstar.

To Laurent, it was priceless. A family souvenir passed on by generations throughout the times of the glory of Elves. With its origin within the Rivendell walls and streams and its part in the great love story of the Lord Aragorn and Lady Arwen, it traveled from elf to elf as a reminder of the power of one of the most fundamental emotions in this world: love. Laurent had yet to find his own.

Why Damen didn’t keep it to himself was beyond Laurent’s reasoning. Maybe he thought it was the most promising way of getting on the elf's good side, or maybe he was just inspired by a sudden sense of good will of the host. Either way, Laurent wasn't going to fall for it so easily.

He didn't realize Damen was observing him until he looked up. There was a peculiar feeling to it, nostalgic almost, but the elf refused to be affected by it. He stubbornly looked down again to inspect his necklace some more, oblivious to the man's presence. 

Damen chuckled, and Laurent saw him move to stand in front of him from the corner of his eye. The man merely looked over his shoulder when one of his men started singing obnoxious songs and others joined him, chanting even louder.

"You won't even grace me with words of gratitude?"

Laurent sighed and looked up again in annoyance at having to perform this action more than once.

"I shouldn't have been parted with it in the first place," was all he said to the man. He stood up from his uncomfortable seat, and with the Evenstar safely in his hand, he walked away in the direction of the tent. 

No one tried to stop him, or at least block his way and make him join the merry intoxication on wine. Although on the other hand everyone was already past the point of even remote sobriety to even pay attention to him. Their songs were composed more of slurs and hiccups than actual words as they collided with each other in a silly attempt to move around the campfire.

Laurent found it disturbing, for White Elves always resented alcohol and the unpredictably moronic behavior that came with it. There was also a point of the inability to intoxicate themselves because of their body's high tolerance for beverages of this kind. This fact elves tended to omit and simply express their disapproval of the alcohol based on their proud elegant nature.

He spent that evening caressing the Evenstar and being maybe only slightly grateful toward Damen for bringing it back to him after all.

 

***

 

He was standing in a field of wild flowers when the eagles appeared. Flying over his head, brown wings spread wide and threw shadows all around. The sun was casting burning rays of light, intoxicating him. A soft spring breeze caressed his face with barely-there touches, and left him craving for more of its delicacy. It went through the field, swaying the evergreen grass and making flowers dance.

It was perfect.

Soon though he could no longer smell the rosy aphrodisiac, nor see the beauty of the glade. The eagles took the wind in their wings and not one shadow was left as they flew away from him and this idyllic place.

He coughed at the smoky stench filling the air. To no avail he tried to stop it from tainting his blue eyes; he shut them a second too late and could feel the stinging spreading and tears rolling down his pale cheeks.

Fire. The heat of it didn’t spare much time to reach him, yet still did not taint his skin. Despite the pain, he opened his glassy eyes and saw through them the red shifty flames burning down the flowers in their wake. The grass seemed to lament its last attempt to survive until there was nothing but ashes left behind. 

Suddenly he was yanked back by an invisible force, and he realized he was still in his temporary bed with a dark figure towering over him. It took him a moment to adjust his sight to the darkness that weighed down upon him in the tent. Blinking once more revealed the ominous truth.

It wasn’t darkness at all. 

It was smoke, grey and heavy, filling the tent through every even the smallest nook and cranny. The one standing by his bed was none other than Damen. He was alarmed and in a rush, if the glances he was throwing behind his shoulder were any indication. 

“Quick, get up.” He didn’t wait for Laurent’s reaction and simply hauled him from the bed and onto his feet as if he was light as a feather. 

The elf was quick to judge the situation, and he knew already that his dream carried more reality than imagination in itself. The panicked shouts from the outside proved it.

But from looking in Damen’s angry eyes he knew there was more to it.

“What is it?”

The man didn’t reply and quickly moved around the tent, grabbing essential items; among them was Laurent’s cloak. He assisted the elf with putting it on, but with the harsh pulling on his slim shoulders it felt forceful more than anything. Laurent fixed the material to better cover his white tunic and then put a hand on Damen’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. 

The man briefly looked at the hand now tightening its grip on his arm, and then at the elf.

“We’re being attacked.” He paused to take a breath. “Saiturians from the North. Vicious bastards.” He didn’t even try to hide the disgust on his face.

Through the centuries Laurent had lived in this world, he knew for certain there was hardly anything worse than Saiturians. They weren’t Striders, not really - that would mean they possessed at least an ounce of order and self-restraint. They hunt, but animals weren’t their preferred prey. They raided villages, skinned farmers and their children, raped women to later gut them out like pigs. The concept of following the voice of reason was unknown to them. There was no place for parlay with their kind. Only few ever attempted to fight them and paid the highest price.

This time it was Damen who caught Laurent’s attention. He leveled down with him and in a grave, steady tone said, “We have to leave. Now.” In one swift move he threw the hood over Laurent’s head and made sure his blond hair wasn’t visible from beneath it. For a moment they just silently looked at each other, the tension now shifting to more private grounds. In the blink of an eye it was gone as Damen left his side to secure some other items around the tent before it would be burned to the ground.

The shouts from the outside grew louder, and Laurent could hear a battle unfolding in the close vicinity. Striders weren’t giving up so easily, but Saiturians pushed through with crushing force. He didn’t have to see it to know how their odds wavered. Slashes of the blades piercing the flesh and dying cries Laurent would remember for many sleepless nights to come.

He touched the hollow space below his neck to make sure the Evenstar was still there and hid it under two layers of material. He cherished it more than his own life and the raiders would have to go through him first to get to it. He vowed to protect it with all his might.

Laurent watched as Damen packed his bag with anything important he could find, but the tension in his broad shoulders told Laurent his thoughts were someplace else; out there, with his people, fighting for their lives. If it weren’t for the elf, he would have probably been there with them, slaying his way through the enemy’s strong offence. 

But he’d also be dead.

Laurent’s time in the Striders’ camp seemed to be numbered down to a few short moments. He didn’t realize he was being dragged out of the tent by the hand until Damen stopped dead in his track, making him stop as well. The man purposely kept the elf behind him, shielding with his whole body - the action which left Laurent in a state of no little shock. The was no line of commitment between them, yet Damen seemed to take every precaution to keep him safe.

The furious battle had built up and swallowed whole the campsite around them. In most of the places where tents used to stand, now there were only pieces of sheets and wood burned to a crisp. The fire was neither merciful on the barrels of wine and food, leaving them scattered all around, posing as a true life-threatening danger to fighting people. If one tripped over them, he wouldn’t stand up - his opponent, spotting the opportunity, would be fast to pierce him with his sword, ending his life in the most pitiful way. Laurent saw that happen far to his left and wished not to move from his spot so he wouldn't share the man’s fate.

The Saiturians looked quite like the Striders he had already met, with one distinction. Their faces were painted scarlet, and some of their clothing also carried this bloody ornament. The aura of insanity could be felt from them from miles away, and they moved faster than any human Laurent had ever seen. Restless. Impatient for their awaited hunt.

Damen’s attention was focused on the struggle of his fellow companion to fight two enemies at the same time on the other side of the camp. He drew out his sword on instinct, but then froze and turned around to look at Laurent. The elf wasn’t visibly panicking - the self-control of an elf being responsible for that - but he wasn’t indifferent to the bloodshed either. Damen searched something in his face, possibly the ability to protect himself if necessary, and after a short moment he reached inside the linen bag and pressed a cold object to Laurent’s chest.

A dagger.

It wasn’t too wide or long, but just of the right size to sneak inside one’s cloak sleeve undetected. The blade and the hilt were made entirely out of silver with small golden ornaments running along the middle. Perhaps Damen trusted him with a weapon more than he cared to show it.

The elf looked down and with no more hesitation wrapped his hand around the dagger’s hilt. Its slim, wavy shape and weightlessness were suspiciously similar to the elvish craft, but it was not the time nor place to address this obvious thievery.

“Stay close," Damen said, and it was a challenge for Laurent to distinguish his words over the growing sounds of the battle. Then they moved, keeping themselves on the edge of the camp and approaching safe ground which, in that moment, didn’t exist. 

They managed not to get spotted for a few more seconds until a shout broke out next to them. Laurent turned just to see a glimpse of a masked man charging at them with a bloody sword in his hand before Damen pierced a hole in his stomach with one strong thrust forward. He threw the man’s lifeless body to the side and rushed Laurent to walk faster. It wasn’t an easy task with the dark of the night and the remnants of the camp sticking from the ground to attack his feet at any given time.

The elf wasn’t sure what the man’s intention was, if it was to escape the fight or attack the Saiturians from a more suitable strategic spot. As far as he was concerned, he had already been given the desired weapon and could use this opportunity to finally break free from his captor.

Why then had he found himself unable to leave Damen’s side?

The question occupied his mind to the point he didn’t realize the tent they were hiding behind dropped to the ground, consumed by fire. In a second, they lost the only thing that had been keeping them in the shadows, now leaving them out in the open and vulnerable. Damen cursed and lifted his sword higher, prepared to take on anyone daring to charge at him.

As it turned out, there were many like that.

No longer safe, they were spotted in an instant by a nearby Saiturian who had just defeated one of Damen’s men. And then by another one. The pace at which they were being discovered was making Laurent’s head spin and his blood run cold. The dagger in his tight grip didn’t feel sufficient anymore, and for a second he considered going through Damen’s bag in search of a bigger weapon, but there was no time. They were already prey for the invaders.

Damen released his bag and attacked. Enraged by the loss of his men, he seemed unstoppable in his wild barbarian glory. His fury was enough to make the others hesitate and almost fall back.

Almost.

They picked themselves back up and with incoherent yells ran to meet Damen’s blade with their own. The first one overestimated his chances, but it wasn’t so easy with the other man. He avoided the slashes of Damen’s sword as he jumped from side to side like an oversized grasshopper. It was as annoying as it could possibly be, and for the first time that night Laurent wanted to put an end to someone’s life just so he wouldn’t have to watch the absurd performance any longer. 

As Damen was fighting, he was pulled more and more away from Laurent. Unprotected and with only a small dagger as his only friend, he took a step back when another man noticed him. Neither of them moved though. The Saiturian seemed taken aback by an out-of-place hooded figure standing in front of him. The caution was visible in his eyes and in the same manner he fixed the hold on his sword. 

A second later he was driven by nothing but the urge to kill.

Laurent ran. Not in the opposite direction and into the forest, but off to the side, jumping over motionless bodies and fallen tents. The Saiturian was hot on his tail but not close enough to stab Laurent from behind. The elf sprang into the air again and landed in between two sets of burned down tents. In the middle of one of them was a single standing bar that used to hold the weight of the thick sheet of the roof. He grabbed it and yanked, and it stopped midway as it fell behind him, temporarily blocking the chaser’s way. 

It didn’t feel like a victory for long. He made the biggest mistake of not taking in his surroundings and he clashed with another man twice his size. They stumbled and almost tripped over a dead body until Laurent quickly jumped back in time to dodge the sword that slashed down into the space he had just occupied.

With a single loud thump of the heart he realized he’d lost his balance and tried to regain it, but it was too late. His only chance to minimize the impact was to twist his body as he fell to the ground, bruising his arm on the sharp edges of the broken wood. The attacker stepped closer and took a swing at Laurent. Luckily for the elf, it required a lot of time-consuming force, giving him the perfect opportunity to roll over and avoid the final blow. 

In all the commotion, the dagger slipped to the ground too far for Laurent to reach it. He was trapped with the image of agonizing death approaching at a brisk pace. He felt paralyzed there on the ground as he stared his imminent killer in the eyes. The only positive thought he had was the hood that somehow managed to stay on his head. That way the satin blond hair wouldn't be tainted with his blood.

He grabbed the Evenstar through the material of his clothing and this action alone brought back all the strength needed to roll over again, pick himself up in one swift motion and face his opponent. The dagger was back in his hand and there was only one task in his mind: aim for the heart.

The attacker quickly threw away his long sword and pulled out a small blade of his own, swaying it in the air. The red stripes around his mouth formed into a mocking smile. The elf wasn’t going to give him this satisfaction. 

His first attack was quick. The man reacted just as fast and dodged the blade, the smile never leaving his face. It was making Laurent boil inside. So he attacked again. This time the tip of the blade cut right through the middle of the man's free hand, but it didn't slow him down enough. The wound had the same impact on him much as if it was only dirty and not worth his attention. 

In the far back of his mind echoed Damen’s loud voice as he ordered his people around, regrouping and boosting their morale. But over here it felt like their fights were miles apart. Like Laurent was fighting over something entirely different. Honour, maybe. He was alone and seeing nothing but the deadly blade in his opponent’s tight grip.

Laurent was facing his opponent with enough determination, but far less experience to even think highly of his surviving chances. Nonetheless, he charged again, this time throwing his entire body forward and catching the Saiturian by surprise. He used this stagnancy well and pierced so deep in the man’s leg he let out a long wail. Another small victory. In high spirits, Laurent tried to pull the dagger out of the flesh but couldn’t, no matter how hard he yanked. 

He backed away, but didn’t reach very far. The man looked down at his bleeding leg and growled furiously. Laurent could use the man to be in pain for a little bit longer so he could disappear, but he was met with nothing but an outburst of rage, and what quickly came after that: a fast attack he was not prepared for. 

Somehow, the man pulled out the dagger and charged at Laurent with it. The pain he then felt in his lower abdomen was sharp and dull at the same time, as if it wasn’t really happening to him. Except it was. The Saiturian twisted the blade and it went deeper, and Laurent opened his mouth in a soundless gasp. His eyes went foggy, and he could barely see the devious smile on the man’s face.

He didn’t even realize his cloak had fallen off him in all the commotion until the Saiturian threw him a shocked look and took a step back, leaving the dagger buried hilt-deep in Laurent’s stomach. His gaze traveled lower from the elf’s blond hair, and for a moment Laurent didn’t know the reason behind the spark in his eyes. Then a cold wave surged through him when he remembered the Evenstar hanging from his neck. The weight of it, now exposed, felt like another, even more powerful blow to his abdomen. An expression of recognition came over the Saiturian’s features, and in his weakened state Laurent knew his stab wound was the second worst thing he had to worry about that night.

The man didn’t come at him this time though. He didn’t make an attempt to seize the Evenstar like Laurent feared he would, and instead he took a few more steps back and broke into a run, calling out to his flock. Laurent listened in to their retreating footsteps and managed to stand on his feet till the moment he could no longer hear anything. The battlefield turned silent and his legs gave in and he fell, hitting his head hard against the ground. Dust sprang into the air around him but he couldn’t see it, his eyes clouded and heavy. 

He didn’t know how much time had passed until he heard someone calling out his name, the familiar voice neither close nor far from where he lay. An eager plea against his weakening ears.

And then there was nothing.


End file.
